by Bella Cruise
“I am so proud of you, Jules,” Ginny says. Cal, with his arm around me, gives me a squeeze. Even Luke looks appreciative, which means a lot. He’s generally not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve.
But then I feel Cal tense beside me. I follow the line of his eyes. Paparazzi at ten o’clock. Even though it would be great press, I figure he’s sacrificed enough this week at the altar of Juliette’s. Time for both of us to enjoy the success that’s already here—and for us to enjoy each other.
“I need to go check things out in back,” I tell Ginny and Luke. “Make sure everything is running smoothly. Come on, Cal.”
I pull on his hand. He dutifully follows me through the crowd of laughing, well-fed Floridians. As we pass them, I give Evie and her boyfriend Finn a little wave. But mostly, I’m focused on one thing, the prize ahead.
“Where are we going?” Cal asks, when we don’t head into the kitchen at all but instead toward one of the stock rooms in back.
“I have a surprise for you,” I tell him.
We slip into the stockroom. I close and lock the door behind me. Cal’s watching me, those green eyes lively and curious. In a single, smooth movement, I slip off my dress. The only thing I’m wearing underneath is a black lace thong. Cal starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, working swiftly. But then his hands freeze as I reach over to one of the shelves and grab something.
It’s long and silver and heavy in my hands. Cal’s eyebrows lift.
“My old friend,” he says. He could laugh, but he doesn’t. I can see the line of his cock through his pale linen pants.
I press the tool into his waiting hands. It’s an icing injector. I step close to him, and all the chaos of the world beyond fades away.
“For old time’s sake, right, Cupcake Casanova?”
Cal leans down and kisses me, long and hungry.
“Anytime,” he replies, “Maybe Fondant.”
The End
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If you like sexy guys wearing flannel, read on for an excerpt of Lila Munroe’s RUGGED.
RUGGED
by Lila Munroe
Laurel Young needs a plan, and fast. After her reality TV boss has a major meltdown, not-so-funemployment seems inevitable--unless she can pitch the idea of a lifetime. When she sees Flint McKay's audition tape - flanneled, handsome as hell, and building a house with his own two hands - she knows she's found her secret weapon. The women of America are going to love him, especially if she can convince him to try building without the flannel shirt.
Only problem is, Flint didn’t make that tape - and he has zero interest in trading the wilds of Western Massachussetts for the bright lights of Hollywood. But Laurel isn’t the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Soon, she's knee-deep in rustic charm, and getting plenty of hands-on experience. And it turns out, this city girl and country guy may have a few things in common after all, like crazy hot chemistry, a wild side, and a weakness for good whiskey...
But can their behind-the-scenes connection last once the world falls in love with Flint? And will this be the big break both of them need- or leave them in the dirt?
Find out in Lila Monroe’s fun, sexy new novel!
AVAILABLE NOW!
1
There’s no business like show business. Actually, let me clarify that: there’s no business that will make you lose your hair, your sleep, and your tenuous grip on sanity like show business. Especially if you’re on the production end of things, like I am. Extra especially, with a side order of especial, if you’re on the production end of a high-stress, high-competition field like reality television. And if your reality television production company is named Reel World Entertainment, purveyor of only the finest in exploitation and sleaze? Start mainlining coffee and cancel your OKCupid date: your social life’s not making it out alive.
Fortunately for me, high stress and high adrenaline are my two closest friends. We love to meet up for bestie things like getting mani-pedis and taking over the world of entertainment, transforming it from exploitative images of breasts into an empire of class. I want the corner office with my name on the door: Laurel Young, Executive and Defender of Integrity and Ratings. Think of me as a good-hearted Genghis Khan in designer pumps. Which, come to think of it, would probably be a show Reel World would love. Ugh.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m starting my regular routine at work—get in half an hour early, kick off my high heels under the desk while downing my extra shot, non fat latte, and shoot through my emails rapid fire—when my desk phone rings. I grab it and balance it against my shoulder while ripping open the top of my yogurt.
“Hey Suze. What’s up?” I ask, spying her on caller ID. I smile and lean back in my chair. Suze is my actual human best friend—stress and adrenaline never want to go to the Farmer’s Market on Sunday. I’m just taking a spoonful of key lime Greek when she says the magic, horrible words.
“Sanderson went AWOL with Maribelle on the Keys.”
To any normal person, this sounds like some weird army maneuver with a bunch of stupid names. To me, this results in a spilled yogurt on my work-chic gray skirt.
“Dammit!” I jump up, wiping at the offending breakfast with Kleenex. “Hold on. I’ll be right there,” I say, slamming the phone down. Once I’m properly de-yogurted, I run out of my cubicle and down towards Suze’s. Okay, by run I mean I urgent waddle. Pencil length fashionable work attire isn’t designed for badassery.
“Look at this,” Suze says, when I almost crash into her desk. She’s gone pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup, and brings up some footage on her computer. The video’s from the set of Millionaires in Paradise, a show that follows the exploits of the super hot and super rich in the super ritziest parts of Florida. Brian Sanderson, my boss, is wrapped up in Maribelle DeJour’s sweet, spray-tanned embrace.
Brian’s not supposed to be wrapped up in anything on screen. He’s the producer! Wincing, I squat down next to Suze and watch the madness unfold.
“We’re in love!” Brian cries, doing his best to shield Maribelle from the shaky cam that’s following their every move. “Mari’s not going back to her husband. She’s staying with me, and we’re not going to lie to you people any longer!”
Brian’s deep orange tan is going red. He actually throws his sunglasses to the floor.
“Like, exactly what he said!” Maribelle cries. She looks around, a little bit lost, like she’s not sure what the next line’s supposed to be. Maribelle’s a nice person, but she’s always been kind of confused.
“Get away!” Brian yells, throwing something else—I think it’s a diamond-encrusted vase—at the cameraman. Suze pauses the video and looks up at me.
“Apparently they got in a rowboat or something and hijacked Maribelle’s husband’s yacht. They could be in Cancun by now. Or Antarctica, if they keep going south.” Suze taps her bright red nails against her desk. “What happens now?”
We both know what this means. My boss is gone. The show is gone. My job is gone.
“How the hell could Brian do this?” I say, leaning back against the desk and sliding down the cabinets. The world around me is spinning. Millionaires in Paradise was my first big break here. Brian plucked me out of coffee-fetching obscurity. He was one of the only men who didn’t roll his eyes when I suggested ideas, who didn’t ask me to go pick out a gift for his wife on my lunch break. Being an assistant producer on Millionaires was the chance I’d been waiting for. I was learning the ropes, developing my own ideas. And now, in one shattered vase and stolen rowboat, it’s gone.
“Laurel?” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face. “Earth to Laurel. Paging. Co
me back to me.”
“What, Suze? I’m in the middle of a highly professional spiritual crisis.” I stand up, and Suze looks down at my feet, her eyebrow quirked.
“Are you wearing Minion slippers? Like from Despicable Me?”
Damn. I knew I forgot something. My face heats up. “It’s just for desk work. Very professional,” I mutter, cursing my footwear. But they’re so cute, with their fuzzy yellow heads and goggles. And heels hurt, dammit.
Focus, Laurel!
“This isn’t the end,” Suze says, running a hand through her sleek black bob of hair. That’s the sort of thing your well-meaning friends say when they know this is the end. I’m finished at Reel World. No one else will notice or care now. If I’m not fired outright, I’ll fade into the wallpaper. It’ll be fabulous wallpaper with a designer blouse, but still: wallpaper.
“I have to get back to my desk,” I say, trying not to sound as lifeless as I feel. The Minions and I hike back and sit down to find, joy of joys, an email bearing the cheerful title ‘Sanderson’s Departure.’ I click and read, then proceed to do a very expressive double take. It’s from the assistant to Herman Davis, executive of development. He’s all the way on top, looking down over us mere mortals. I don’t think he’s been below the tenth floor in twenty years; he probably arrives and leaves via helicopter every day. So yeah, he’s hard to talk to. But he knows reality television inside and out.
And this email says he wants to see me in his office now. Right now. No loitering. I kick off my cartoon characters and slip into my heels before dodging out of the cubicle. My heart’s pounding as I jab the elevator button and wait. Part of me is afraid this is a “clear out your desk” type of meeting, but that doesn’t feel right. One of the company heavies doesn’t want to do HR’s grunt work.
It’s quiet on the top floor. The air up here tastes executive. The elevator doors whisper open, and I step out onto gray carpeting that’s so lush, my heels almost sink into it. I wobble a little as I pat my hair—brown, shoulder length, boring—into place. Keep it together, Laurel. You need to project cool confidence, not little girl skittishness. Already, the men passing me in the hallway grin sideways or look down to scope out my ass. Fucking sexist dickwads. Granted, I work at Pilates to make sure it’s a nice ass, but still. Gross.
The men up here are mostly executive level, mostly middle-aged and trying not to look it, mostly creeps with oiled hair and roving hands. With their buttoned-in martini paunches and desperately whitened teeth, they see me—young, female—as either a conquest or an annoyance, depending on how horny they are. But they’re not getting rid of me that easy. Not if I’m meeting with Herman Davis. I straighten my shoulders and walk on.
The assistant looks up from her computer. “Yes?” She’s got long, bejeweled pink nails that must make it hard to type.
“Laurel Young to see Mr. Davis,” I say. No squeaky voice. Great start. She picks up the phone, hits a button, and says, “She’s here.” After a second, she hangs up and nods. “You can go in.”
I enter Herman Davis’s office without tripping, smacking my head into the door, or initiating a nuclear standoff. Always a good beginning.
At first it’s hard to see anything, what with the row of about twenty golden Emmy awards lined up against the back wall reflecting the morning sun. Blinking stupidly with my mouth open is surely not the world’s greatest first impression, but I recover fast. Behind a spacious, mahogany desk, Herman Davis waits.
Mr. Davis is somewhere in his early sixties, with a full head of silver hair, a pair of rimless glasses, and an attitude full of don’t-fuck-with-me. He looks at me without irritation or lust: already, this is new.
“You’re Young, aren’t you?” he asks.
That’s not a real question about my age. Hopefully.
“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” I try to keep my voice pitched as low as possible. Otherwise, I come off as the teenage babysitter hoping to score an extra five bucks at the end of the night.
“Brian Sanderson’s an asshole.” He sighs. “Taking off like that with the star of our show. Idiot.” Poor Brian. He’s a sweet, loveable dork who remembered birthdays and collected Funko POP! characters on his desk, not a sharky Hollywood jackass. I have to resist the urge to stick up for him. “But he told me you’re one of the best assistant producers he’s ever seen.” Davis raises his eyebrows.
Do I take a seat now? I can’t hesitate: in Hollywood, perfect confidence gets you the corner office. I sit down in front of his desk, fighting the urge to smooth my skirt. Nervous habit. He doesn’t say anything.
“Brian always listened to my ideas,” I say, sounding casual. In reality, Brian’s attitude towards women in the workplace was like a golden unicorn: beautiful and impossibly rare.
“Mmm. You were the one who suggested the Yukon expedition for Millionaires in Paradise sweep week.” Davis nods, looking gruffly pleased. “People didn’t expect that; pampered princesses in rugged territory.” He leans back in his leather chair. “Big ratings hit.”
Brian stuck up for me, good man that he was. He didn’t claim my idea for his own. Why the hell did he have to blow everything up like this?
“Let me explain this situation to you.” Davis leans forward again, clasped hands on the shining top of his desk. “We’ve got a gaping hole in the Thursday night lineup now that Millionaires is gone. It’s a hole that needs to be filled at once. I’m accepting emergency pitches for a new show.” He nods. “I want to hear your ideas.”
Oh God, does he mean right now? Frantically, I start the wheels in my brain spinning. Come on. Hot girls find love with gamer geeks? Four families are sent to the bottom of the Mariana trench to see who survives? I’m blowing this.
“You’ve got a week.” Praise Jesus! Davis stands up, and I do the same. A week. Seven whole days. I can work with that. “I want to see if you’re as good as Sanderson told me you were. Deliver me a great pitch, I’ll do more than take it. I’ll let you produce the entire thing yourself.”
I do a great job of not dropping dead on the spot. Produce the entire show? That’s a fast track I never thought I’d be on. That’s a career-making move. Davis clearly sees this is making me too happy, because he adds,
“I need capable producers. What I don’t need are hangers on with nothing to do.” He doesn’t smile. “And with Sanderson gone, you won’t be very busy.”
Okay. It’s feast or famine, producer or unemployment line. If I succeed next week, I’ll finally be a producer, full fledged and shiny. I’ll have control of my own show. No more bowing to other people, even good guys like Brian. I’ll be running the place myself. Those sweet images of world ratings domination float through my mind.
But if I don’t make the cut, I’ll probably be back in my Ohio hometown, looking for a job at the local public access station. New mantra: Don’t fuck this up, Laurel.
“You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Davis,” I say, almost reaching to shake his hand. But that’s not a smart move. I don’t know that he’s touched anyone below the executive pay grade since 1989.
“I better not be. All right, Young. Off you go.” He nods to the door, and I walk away, wanting to do little twirling dances and sing dumb songs. I imagine a full-on Disney musical number, complete with animated sidekicks, but not here. Outside.
Before I can touch the handle, the door opens. And I’m face to face with my worst nightmare. There he is, five foot ten of gelled, chiseled-jaw, Axe body sprayed douche canoe. Tyler Kinley.
“Hey, it’s Young Laurel. Still as sexy as ever.” He gives a smile so white it belongs at a GOP stump speech, and raises his Ralph Lauren sunglasses. His eyes go down my body, lingering on my breasts. I resist the urge to knee him in the groin.
Young Laurel. That was the “nickname” he thought was so fresh. Back when we were sleeping together, I let him get away with it. I’m not in the mood for his wacky verbal shenanigans now.
“Hey, Tyler. If you can try squeezing your ego through the doo
rway, I’ll be able to leave.” I give him a professional, hollow smile. He gets to leer, and I have to shut up and bear it. It’s a healthy dose of the real world over at Reel World, let me tell you.
He laughs and sweeps into the room past me, a perfumed cloud of jackass suffocating me in his wake. “Mr. D! How are you, man?” Tyler actually walks up and grabs Davis’s hand. I can’t tell if the executive is pleased or not, but he doesn’t say anything. Could I have gotten away with that? Or would it have been too ‘immature’ coming from a woman? “I heard it through the grapevine that you’re accepting pitches for Sanderson’s misfire. Happy to volunteer my brilliance.”
My stomach plummets. It takes the elevator back up and plummets again, even further and harder, when Davis says,
“We’re taking the pitches in a week. I want to see good work, Kinley.”
“If by good work, you mean good T and A, I got what you need. I’m already cooking up an angle for something totally new: breast implants for underage teen daughters of celebrities. It’ll be SAH—Sweet As Hell.”
“Have you been waiting for the right moment to use that one?” I say, wanting to run him over with a tractor. I wince; damn, I didn’t want to appear rattled in front of Davis, but Tyler will do that to you. The bastard actually winks at me.
“Came up with it in the moment. That’s what I do, Young. I’m an idea guy.”
No. You’re the guy who steals other people’s ideas. As I walk out of Davis’s office and listen to Tyler guffaw and talk about the ‘hot new assistant’ outside, I grit my teeth. It’s time for Genghis Khan to grab her pumps and get to work.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Read the rest of the story in RUGGED - Available now!